I'll Wait

I'm not going in those woods tonight.
I may not ever.
I'll wait.
Wait until the draw is undeniable.
Wait until the strongest creature in there
comes and takes my hand.
I want, I need that protection.


Linking up at Poetry Jam.

The Story

Written for my teenage niece:





The story is of old.

 Boy meets girl.

Girl gets hurt.

Life goes on.

Source: laceandbow.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

The story is of old.

The plot

       Persists,

 Albeit, thickening,

Thinning by reader’s interpretation, culture’s translation,

                                      Still passing down like a sin

Generation to generation.

It is read, heard, told, seen, felt, and witnessed.

Tellers and listeners alike, each character,

                Author, villain, hero—all have sought

                     to change its ending but though

                     the setting, the circumstances,  these, may alter, nevertheless, the denouement wavers not.                                          

He said, she said,

His fault, her fault,

He hungered, she denied,

She thirsted, he fought,

He didn’t fight, she cried

He died, never though to self.

And the villain slithers away, unperceived.

If you know this story,

Do Dive in.  Absorb, experience, turn the pages, listen attentively to

                                                                  the words.

Are you brave or wise enough to try

and end it?

It is a mystery, a romance, a comedy, a drama, a tragedy but never a farce.

One said,

one wanted,

one fought ,

one cried,

one died. 

He is the True Hero.

He is not a boy.

He is a lover.

He became a man.

He was and is

the beginning

and the end.

Source: 26.media.tumblr.com via Nicole on Pinterest

Rewrite

The Write on Wednesday Rules: Get creative with the exercises. Don't worry too much about right or wrong. The aim is to Get Writing. Do try to visit the other writers linking up and leave a comment. You can grab the Write on Wednesday button from my sidebar.

Write on Wednesday Exercise 14 - The Mighty Mighty Rewrite...

Zanni: I did a workshop with literary author Mj Hyland, who teachers Masters in Creative Writing at Manchester University. She asked us to choose our favourite book, take the first paragraph and then write our own content into the paragraph, keeping the structure, tone, language etc. It's really helpful!

No time limit. Let's keep up the focus on making each word count. Ready? Set? Write!

Original:

By bedtime all the faces, the voices, had blurred for Charlotte to one face, one voice. She prepared herself for bed, very slowly and deliberately, cleaning her teeth with the new green toothbrush, undressing awkwardly because she did not like to hide herself in the washing-cubicle with her fellow new girl, Susannah; but she was on the other hand much too shy and strange to undress as openly as the other three, Vanessa, Janet, and Elizabeth.  Vanessa wandered about for ten minutes at least, in just her vest and navy blue school knickers.  She had freckles all over legs.  Charlotte had never seen anyone with freckled legs before.

Mine:

By bedtime all the faces, the voices had blurred for Charlotte to one face, one voice.  She prepared herself for bed, very slowly and deliberately, but struggled to keep her heavy eyes open as she cleaned her teeth with the new green toothbrush, undressing awkwardly because she did not like to hide herself in the washing-cubicle with her fellow new girl, Susannah; instead she changed into her nightie in the open room but with her front to the wall for  she was much too shy and strange to undress as openly as the other three, Vanessa, Janet, and Elizabeth.  Vanessa wandered about for ten minutes at least, in just her vest and navy blue school knickers.  She had freckles all over legs.  Freckles all over her arms and face, as well.  Charlotte had never seen anyone with freckled legs before.  Charlotte tried not to stare.

(From Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer.  My favorite book as a child.)

Art

She grabs her pencils of many colors and she grabs their essence, adding randomness.
 Her hand flies almost as
quickly as her muses
                     move and she finds freedom
                               as never before.

The hues no longer harness but rather create a chaos
            she then tames.
            She lets go of all preconceived ideas and rules, allowing the paper and the medium to discover treasures, stories
     and hidden meanings.

Her heart
has opened to a novel joy; one that comes from within, or maybe from above.

The settings-normal, sometimes mundane- home, space, but the space is theirs.
Where they laugh, talk, eat, play, learn, sleep and she captures its life, its glory.
They compose their songs and she plays them with her colors.

In their gracefulness, she recognizes His supreme grace and now she believes if He can do through her,
    He can do for her.

 He can make art out of what she cannot yet see.

We, poems

We, poems.

Do we know it? 

How like prose transformed to poetry with flourish, with flowering words,

                                                                                We, too may bud and blossom. 

                                                                                               

                                                                                                As a poem may both bludgeon

  Or bolster beauty,

                So, too,

                 Our words, our lives speak out and over creation,

selves created, selves creating chaos, peace, death or life. 

The poem sees what we seek, expresses concepts like eternity, expands on ruminations of reality,

transports us to where the Poet placed us. 

We, poems of infinite form and choice, yearn to know the Poet’s soul.

Grappling with lines or years, we portray profundity, pose and answer questions of the deep as we are

all the while

stilled or shaken

in or by a poem. 

To Know

He could not open his eyes.  He wasn’t sure he felt any need to.  He lay completely still in state, hypnagogic.  No, he had no choice other than this, could not stand or even sit but for the moment he felt peace, even as he heard voices from two worlds. 

                When he had first awakened, only to realize his current state of imprisonment, he had panicked, though, invisibly.  He could not speak but cruelly could hear.  And what he became aware of were the voices of his wife, his brother, the doctors, talking about him in hushed and solemn tones and then to him, pleading with him to hang on, to please not leave them.  He had tried desperately to respond, to move but could not.  It was torment.  But when he had finally ceased his attempts in utter fatigue and sad defeat he had heard the other voices.  He had seen that proverbial light somewhere in the distance.  And he had strained to make out the words of that world.  They were difficult to decipher but oh, how he desired to understand.  He felt as though he had never wanted anything in his life so badly.  Indeed, he began to think he wanted to know that language more than he wanted even to live.  And then with that thought,  he had apparently, unintentionally fluttered his eyelids because the voices on this side became excited, calling for more voices, and soon the Heavenlies were drowned out.

                 Eventually, he had slipped into another deep sleep of nothingness and when he awoke again and was again awake merely in consciousness but not in body, the voices were still floating.   And he found that the voices fluctuated and, at times, those which came from one realm were louder than the others.  In the earthly realm, where he was not quite sure he wanted to stay, the voices were frantic and miserable.  The heavenly voices were indescribably beautiful, luring him with song.  He had no feel of time, no idea how long he had been in between two states, listening to these voices, deciding, perhaps. 

                But no, there was no decision.  He knew what he wanted.  He wanted to be in the light. He wanted to forever listen to the singing.  His limbs seemed to cry out for this.   Though his wife wept, and for her, he felt something akin to sorrow, he knew the glory waiting.  He suffered no physical pain but experience an especially sharp spasm somewhere deep inside him when he determinably, in his mind cast away the earthly voices.  He had seen a hand extended and when he grabbed it, he knew he was making a choice.  It was a hand only, he could not make out the rest of what belonged to the warm fingers grasping his.  He saw a tunnel and he was led a ways down.  And then he was stopped.  The figure halted and so he had no choice but to cease as well.  It was then that he heard the whisper.

 

“It is not time,” came a compassionate voice and he felt as though he’d stopped breathing.  He wanted it to be time.  He had come so close to glory. 

And then just like that, his eyes opened against his will and he saw his dear wife’s face.  She gasped and her hands covered her mouth as tears ran down her face and she took steps toward him.  And yes, he loved her.  He smiled as best he could because of this love.

  He was called to stay for now.  And he tried to listen as she talked, her voice speeding over some story of his bravery, his sacrifice, the boy on crutches in the parking lot but he didn’t really get it and he didn’t really care.  He knew what sacrifice was.  He would tell her someday soon, what he had seen and how wonderful it was, of this certain great expectation he would now hold so dear in his heart with patience in his remaining days.  

Dream

I dreamt I was in love with you again.  In the clouds, my eyes

                     saw nothing of the pain you caused me.   My

 heart yearned for you, not in the aching way it practiced toward

       the end but in the anticipating, longing way of our beginning.  I chased you through a field of passion, and you turned to

 me, to let me catch you.  Playful

                                                poppies sprung all around

                                                                     us, the sun of our youth shining down on all that once was new. 

                                                                                                                                                                                We lay like that sun would never set but when I woke, I returned to the

 barrenness you left me with and the quiet resignation I’ve learned to live with.


Where the hope still lies.